


Of Mothers and Daughters

by Fire_Sign, PhryneFicathon



Category: Miss Fisher's Murder Mysteries
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-14
Updated: 2018-02-14
Packaged: 2019-03-15 20:28:53
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,500
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13621101
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Fire_Sign/pseuds/Fire_Sign, https://archiveofourown.org/users/PhryneFicathon/pseuds/PhryneFicathon
Summary: An evening conversation between Phryne and Margaret Fisher, for the prompt:The relationship between parents and children, but especially between mothers and daughters, is tremendously powerful, scarcely to be comprehended in any rational way."—Joyce Carol Oates





	Of Mothers and Daughters

**Author's Note:**

  * For [PromisesArePieCrust](https://archiveofourown.org/users/PromisesArePieCrust/gifts).



> I wrote this, expecting it to be a completely different fic, while stuck in editing hell for my other ficathon fic. I then promptly shelved it, thinking that it might be part of a longer fic or something, because it hadn't done what I'd expected. As luck would have it, the ficathon schedule numbers shook out in such a way that we were one fic short of perfect balance, and so this is essentially a small stopgap measure.

_"The relationship between parents and children, but especially between mothers and daughters, is tremendously powerful, scarcely to be comprehended in any rational way."_

_—Joyce Carol Oates_

* * *

Phryne slipped out the kitchen door, drawing her cardigan around her to ward off the late autumn chill; her father was celebrating his return with a card game that had turned raucous, and the silent dark seemed far preferable.

Heading down the path towards the small rose garden, she turned her eyes skyward. The rapidly rolling clouds obscured most of the stars, but there was enough light from the nearly full moon that she could make her way safely. Turning the corner into the row of hedges, she paused; her mother sat on the bench, her head tilted backward, her silver-streaked hair loose and cascading behind her. Before Phryne could retreat—there were other little gardens on the estate, and her mother was clearly seeking solitude—Margaret sensed her presence.

“Hello, darling,” she said, sliding along the bench to make room for Phryne. “Take a seat.”

“I was just—”

“Nonsense,” said Margaret. “Sit down. We’ve barely had a chance to talk since your arrival.”

A deliberate choice, not that Phryne would admit to such a thing. She strode towards the bench, taking a seat.

“Your father?” Margaret guessed.

“My father,” Phryne confirmed. “Who seems to think that I should play poker with the lads; I’m rather inclined to think he’s using my good looks as a distraction from his usual cheating.”

Margaret gave a wry smile. “It’s not cheating when you’re a baron, Phryne, it’s a quirk of the game.”

“How fortunate for him.”

“He is trying.”

“ _Very_ trying,” Phryne countered. “And you’re likely out here for the same reason.”

Margaret shrugged, an elegant roll of her shoulders; there was an innate dignity in her mother that had taken Phryne years to mimic.

“Not precisely,” she said, a hint of wistfulness to her tone that Phryne could not quite account for. “But that’s neither here nor there. How is Australia?”

“Warmer than England, for starters.”

Margaret paused for a moment, seemingly surprised by Phryne’s bluntness, then sighed. “Are we really reduced to discussing weather, Phryne?”

“It might be preferable,” she said honestly, knowing this particular dance too well to expect the steps to change. “It’s the same as it has always been. No doubt Aunt Prudence has written to you repeatedly in horror at my chosen vocation, so I’ll spare you the heartache.”

“Ahh yes, the lady detective business,” Margaret said. “Not quite where I saw you focusing your talents, but Prudence is not as admonishing as you would imagine. I get the impression she’s rather proud of you, truth be told.”

“Only because she ignores it whenever she can,” Phryne said, feeling far too much like the petulant teenager she had once been. “And finds it terribly convenient when she can’t.”

Margaret narrowed her lips but let the barb pass, tilting her head back to study the sky once more.

“I’ve always loved this weather,” she said contemplatively. “Some of my fondest memories are of nights like this. An elopement. A new baby girl. The Christmas when you were seven and Janey…” Phryne saw her mother’s expression freeze. “It’s fitting that you’ve come home today, is all.”

“I’m not staying, Mother.”

It was presented as _fait accompli_ , a trick Phryne had used to manage her mother since she was eleven; people did not argue if you did not give them the impression an argument was possible. Margaret sighed, eyes still skyward.

“I hardly expected you to. You’ll be flying off again as soon as you can. You were never meant to keep your feet on the ground. Where will it be this time? Africa? The wilds of South America? The Mediterranean is a little dull, I imagine, but it’s truly beautiful this time of year.”

Jack’s telegram had made it clear that the time off would be nigh-impossible to manage, and Phryne had found her plans changing in turn.

“Australia.”

If Margaret was surprised, she didn’t show it.

“It’s a wonder you came all this way, then,” she said. “Just to sort out two old fools.”

“He loves you, Mother, and you him.”

It was more complicated than that, and Phryne knew that her choice had been as much for her own benefit as the belief her father had truly changed; there was enough grief in the world, and she would not contribute to it when there was another option. But her answer was simple, pat, something to placate and appease her mother.

“Is love enough?” Margaret asked. “Is it enough when it always comes at a cost?”

It was a question Phryne had often asked as she’d dealt with her parents’ relationship, never satisfied with the answers she found, but this was the first time she’d heard her mother voice it. Phryne had hoped, for years, that she would; now that it had happened, she wasn’t entirely certain she liked the idea.

“Not by itself,” Phryne said, with certainty that was hard-won; despite her current concessions to sentiment, her feelings had not changed that much, nor her ideals.

“But?”

Margaret turned, fixing Phryne with a knowing gaze. It surprised Phryne, though perhaps it shouldn’t have; she’d learnt to manage her mother, but she’d rarely been able to deceive her.

“I think… I think that love is a powerful force,” she prevaricated, glancing down at her hands; she imagined a ballroom, a man meeting her step for step, his hand caressing hers, and smiled. “And it got him out of Melbourne.”

Margaret laughed.

“I suppose it did.”

Phryne found herself wanting nothing more than to tell her mother the truth; that Henry Fisher was many things—a scoundrel, a liar, a fool—but Phryne did believe his love for Margaret, flawed though it was, was sincere. That she had found love of her own, so wildly different to the elder Fishers’ that she could hardly comprehend they were the same emotion. That it had challenged her to become… happier, freer, stronger. To discover her best self, and embrace it with the same joyful alacrity she’d embraced other elements of life.

If there was a chance, however small, that her mother was genuinely happy with her father, if it brought her mother a fraction of the strength and comfort and joy that her own connection inspired… if there was a chance, however incomprehensible the specifics were to her, Phryne would not allow it to be thwarted by circumstance. Her mother deserved that, at least. The words to explain did not come, however, and eventually Margaret stood.

“Stay,” she said when Phryne went to join her. “Enjoy the sky. I suspect your father is in need of a good luck charm by now; a baron’s quirks are only tolerated so long.”

Phryne huffed and rolled her eyes, remembering what had driven her outside in the first place.

“Probably best to go in before someone ends up dead,” she said.

“Phryne…”

Her noble intentions did not stand up well against his baser nature, and Phryne huffed again in resignation.

“I flew him home because you love him, and I was convinced that he loves you. That does not mean that I have the same faith in him that you manage to maintain.”

Margaret inclined her head slightly. “You asked me, earlier, why I was outside tonight.”

Phryne had forgotten the question, to be honest—neatly filed it away as an irritation with her father and moved on.

“I did.”

Margaret reached into a pocket, extracting a piece of paper from within.

“This arrived yesterday, addressed to you.”

“You kept it from me?”

“I wanted… I wanted to understand, Phryne. Why you had changed. I could see it, in your letters and in Prudence's.”

“Wanted to know who to thank?” Phryne asked dryly, reaching out to take the paper.

Margaret snatched it back. “Despite what you seem to believe, Phryne, you are my daughter and I love you deeply. I was concerned.”

“You were meddling.”

“With good reason!”

Phryne arched an eyebrow and held out her hand in demand. The paper—a telegram—was handed over, and Phryne read it quickly, a smile blossoming on her face.

“You can see why I was concerned?”

Given the message in her hand, Phryne was in a mood to ignore all manners of hypocrisy.

“Not particularly, Mother.”

“The man’s clearly in love with you!”

“I should hope so,” Phryne said, folding the telegram and placing it in her pocket. “It would be a shame if he’d called in what was no doubt a ridiculous number of favours to get leave enough to come to England for anything less.”

Margaret seemed genuinely taken aback. “You’re encouraging this foolishness?”

“Not entirely,” Phryne said, her mind already on routes and flights and ports along the way. She looked towards the sky, seeing the stars that were briefly visible before the cloud bank obscured them once more. “I think I’ll meet him in Calcutta.”


End file.
